The Children Go Marching
by whitetiger91
Summary: One week after the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort's triumph, Michael Corner can only describe himself as an ant: a soldier with not a name but a number, forced to do the most unforgivable things. Written for the QLFC S3 R8. VoldemortWins!AU. Warning: contains triggers pertaining to war.


**The Children Go Marching**

 ** _A/N: I do not own any of the characters or the song._**

 ** _Warning: Though only rated T, this fic has triggers revolving around violence, war atrocities and child soldiers. There isn't really any explicit detail (e.g. blood and gore), but I feel I should warn you nonetheless._**

 ** _This fic was written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 4, Round 8. This round required us to write a VoldemortWins!AU. As Beater 1 for Falmouth, I was required to write about what life would be like one week after Voldemort wins._**

 ** _Optional prompts:_**

 ** _(word) allegiance_**

 ** _(word) moonlight_**

 ** _(word) cruel_**

 ** _Word count: 2981 (Gdocs and Wordcounter)_**

 ** _Thank you to my team beta readers!_**

* * *

 _The ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah._

 _The ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah._

There had been many times when Michael was little that he had heard the ant song, his father playing it to him over and over in the hopes of reminding him of his Muggle side. Now, the lyrics had somehow found their way into his mind, distracting him from the cold rain pelting down on him. Perhaps it was because he felt like an insect, marching with his fellow ants to a destination he could not control.

"Get a move on!"

A steady kick to his heel made him surge forwards, keeping up with the other wizards and witches who were marching in single file. Heavy rifles were slung over their shoulders, the wands of their Death Eater escorts trained on them to prevent them from using the weapons until it was time.

When he had first been rounded up and sent on a patrol, just one day after Harry Potter had been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort had taken over, Michael hadn't understood why they had been given Muggle weapons. It was only on the first kill—an elderly Muggleborn 'rebel', who had escaped the raid on his house—that he realised it was because of the irony of the situation. "Kill the Mudbloods with their own filthy weapons since they love Muggles so much," one Death Eater had ordered that first day. Now, one week later—or so Michael thought, the endless days of marching moulding together—he could only be thankful that, so far, his gun had remained unfired.

"I said, get a move on!"

Michael stumbled forward, urging his feet on despite their numbness. His boots were soaked with a mixture of sweat, blood and rain, yet he didn't dare stop to rub them. With any luck, they would remain numb, and he could forget that his heels were covered in blisters. He was already beginning to forget his name, almost—Number 1208B was now his identity, the right to a name stripped from him, just like his wand, regular clothing, hair, friends and parents had been.

"Halt!"

The lines stopped. The heavens had opened up wider, and now the rain was pouring down on them in sheets, making it even more difficult to see his surroundings in the weak moonlight. Coupling that with his sheer exhaustion, Michael could barely tell if they were still in Britain. It was only his ability to recognise the specific architectural style of the small buildings before them that he knew they hadn't made it past Devon and were standing on the outskirts of yet another abandoned town purged of all Muggles.

"Right, you lot know what to do. Begin."

No looks of confusion were shared amongst the patrol, no hesitation. Michael ran with everyone else, heading further into the village. He didn't stop until he reached one of the houses further down the cobbled street, allowing his partner, Marietta—no, Number 1072F—to catch up. With a nod of his head, she kicked the wooden door open, causing it to slam back against the wall. Both pushed into the house to get out of the cold rain, not bothering to turn on the light. All over Britain, power had been cut, the lack of electricity making it even harder for Muggles to survive.

"You take the downstairs, I'll go up," he said.

Mar—Number 1072F nodded without so much as a word, heading off into the house's living room. Michael was used to her not speaking. He knew that she was too afraid to utter a word, in case she'd end up like Number 489L, who had been shot yesterday simply for saying "bless you" when someone had sneezed.

Michael crept up the staircase, cringing as every second stair squeaked under his weight. His rifle was in his hands, and as he made it onto the landing, he used it to butt open the first door. The gun almost slipped from his hands, the sweat on his palms making it hard to get a good grip on it.

Just like with every other raid, he prayed that no one would be inside: that no one would be there to kill him first, or better yet, that he would not have to be the one to kill. Their quota for today was a minimum of two captures and killings of runaways and traitors. Usually, the number was as high as thirty or forty murders; it was so small today only because the village had already been raided by the patrol before them. The Death Eaters weren't feeling as cruel as they normally were, and Michael only prayed harder that he didn't find someone now and thus prompt punishment for the earlier patrol for not finding them first.

Unfortunately, before he could prepare himself to enter the room, his heart racing, he heard a tapping below. It grew louder, turning into a steady knocking. Gulping, Michael spun on his heel and raced back down the stairs, answering Mari—Number 1072F's signal that she had found something… someone.

He found her kneeling in front of a cupboard in the kitchen, gun pointing at it. Her hands were trembling, and when he walked closer to her, he saw that tears were streaming down her grimy face. Swallowing, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, careful not to make her jump, and pushed her out of the way.

His heart squeezed when he peered inside the cupboard, and if it weren't for the fact that his stomach was empty, he would have thrown up. Huddled inside the small area was a little girl, no more than five or six years old. She wore a blue dress—or at least he thought it was blue, patches of dirt covering it—that clung to her small frame, and her dirty blonde hair was knotted and coming out from its hairclips. Her small hands were clasped around her knees, cuddling them, as she turned her head and looked up at him with big, brown eyes.

Michael looked away, his stomach in knots. It was best not to look, or so he had been told. Don't look, just shoot, get it over and done with. He'd probably be doing her a favour, anyway; the girl was pale and thin, already wasting away. She'd probably been hiding there for a while if the smell of urine was anything to go by. He made the mistake of peering back at her when the stale scent hit his nose, his heart shattering when he saw a small puddle beneath the girl.

Feeling something touch his arm, he turned to find Number 1072F staring at him, her gun lowered. He could see the fear in her blue eyes, read the unspoken apology that she had not been able to kill the girl herself. He couldn't resent her for leaving it to him, not really.

Turning back to the little girl, he cleared his throat. "Why—Why are you here?" he asked, his voice raspy and foreign to his ears.

The little girl blinked, bringing up a tiny fist to her eyes to rub the tears away. He didn't think she would reply; better yet, he hoped she wouldn't. A child without a voice somehow seemed less human, less innocent. He had only asked to prolong the task at hand, hoping a miracle would occur that would allow him to walk away and forget the whole business.

"My mum—mummy told me to—to hide here," the girl whispered, fresh tears rolling down her hollow cheeks. "Where—where is she?"

Bile rose to his throat once more and he turned away. Perhaps he would throw up after all. Number 1072F rubbed his arm, trying to soothe him as he bent over and began to dry-heave. The girl's tears became heavier, soon breaking into sobs that wracked her small frame. The sound of her crying brought forth more bile and this time, Michael's prayers were for her to stop. His prayers were answered only when the sound of a gun blast cut into the air, coming from somewhere in the distance.

Number 1072F jumped, dropping her rifle onto the wooden floor with a loud bang. The little girl grew quiet, a single squeak escaping her rosy lips. Michael paused in his heaving, still bent over. Had that really been a gunshot, or was his subconscious playing tricks on him? It wasn't the first time that week that he had imagined the sound his own gun would make, wondering if it would be loud enough to drown out the sound of his victim's screams.

A chill ran up Michael's spine when two more gunshots followed the first. No, he hadn't imagined them. Reaching down, he picked up his partner's gun and pressed it into her hands.

Unlike the little girl who had scampered further into the cupboard, Number 1072F couldn't seem to stop her tears. They ran down her face and onto her robes, adding to the stains already there. Sadness, desperation, exhaustion, relief; it was funny the emotions her tears could show. Locking her eyes onto his, Number 1072F seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him: three shots, possibly three deaths. One above the quota if that was the case; one less they had to kill themselves. If their Death Eater guards did not perform a check, there was a chance the little girl in the cupboard would not be discovered—a chance that they would not have to commit a murder tonight. Should they risk it?

Number 1072F was the first to look away. Balancing her rifle over her left shoulder, she rummaged through the pocket of her torn robes. It was a moment before she pulled something out, and, stooping over to give it to the girl, he realised what it was. The little girl took the mouldy, half-eaten slice of bread with a trembling hand, wide eyes questioning his partner's kindness. His partner then pushed the cupboard door closed, silencing the little girl's whispered, "Thank you."

Michael pursed his lips, torn between wanting to take the bread back for himself—the girl would be lucky to survive much longer—and, more strongly, relief that they could spare her. He wasn't sure what he would have done if Mar—Number 1072F hadn't been there, and it scared him more than he cared to admit. Sighing, he walked away from the cupboard and continued back out the front door, Number 1072F in tow.

They didn't have time to enter the next house on the street, a shower of green and silver sparks lighting up the sky as soon as they stepped outside. Both he and Number 1072F ran in the rain to the field, answering the Death Eaters' summons. Within a minute they were joined by the rest of their patrol, the last to enter being a group of three men holding up a body.

Michael couldn't help but look at the body the group were carrying, his attention caught by a limp arm falling to the side. When the group passed by him, the moonlight shone on the victim's face, highlighting the crimson holes on the man's chest where bullets had met flesh. Three holes. He gulped, recognising the man as the bartender of the Hog's Head; at least the man had put up a fight, judging by his wounds.

The group dumped the body on the ground in front of the Death Eaters and re-joined the line the patrol had formed. Michael's blood froze as he watched the Death Eaters kick the body, their mouths twisting up into smirks.

"Oho, I recognise this one. The Dark Lord will be pleased, won't he?" one of them said, aiming a kick at the deceased bartender's head.

Just as quickly as they had appeared, however, the smirks disappeared from the Death Eaters' faces. Crabbe—the burly Death Eater who had spoken, no doubt related to a boy Michael had once shared class with—stepped forward and glared around at the group. He was the cruellest of the guards and had put himself in charge the moment the patrol had left Hogwarts. His beady, black eyes surveyed them, cheeks growing red.

"Just one body?" he asked.

No one spoke, the tension in the air rising. Michael straightened his posture, determined to hide the shaking that overtook his body. Beside him, his partner stiffened. His heart raced as the image of the little girl flew to the front of his mind, and he berated himself for leaving her. Would his moment of weakness cost him?

Crabbe turned to the Death Eaters behind him, who were shaking their heads. Then, looking back at the group and raising his voice, he asked, "Is that it?"

Number 1072F gulped and Michael knew she shared his fear. Crabbe stepped forward, his eyes blazing. He paced up and down the line, tapping his wand against his palm. Michael could smell the drink on his breath when he passed, and he could feel the strange mixture of hatred and amusement radiating off him. Still, he did not move a muscle, knowing his fate if he did.

Finally, Crabbe stopped pacing. "Well, it's a shame, boys, isn't it? Our numbers are going to have to go down yet again," he said.

From the corner of his eye, Michael could see the other Death Eaters nodding, their chuckles sending another chill up his spine. He remained focused on Crabbe, however, who resumed pacing the line, a smirk back on his face.

"You, you, and you," he said, pointing out two boys and a girl, "Present your weapons."

The three people selected paused, none of them stepping forward. The smirk on Crabbe's face intensified, and he aimed his wand at the girl—the smallest and weakest of the group. " _Crucio!_ "

The girl's screams erupted into the night, her gun falling to the wet grass beside her. As she squirmed and thrashed about, one of the Death Eaters stepped forward and picked it up. Murmuring a spell Michael could not hear, the Death Eater pointed his wand at the gun and watched it light up with a green glow. The Death Eater then nodded, throwing the gun back at the girl's writhing feet.

Immediately, the two boys selected stepped forward, holding out their rifles. The Death Eaters snatched them up, performing the same spell upon them and smiling only when they glowed green, one brighter than the other.

Crabbe continued pacing the line, staring into each cadet's eyes. Michael thought his heart would burst through his rib cage from the way it was pounding, his ability to stand still wavering by the minute. He wanted to run, to throw up, to faint. When Crabbe pointed his wand at him, demanding him to give up his weapon, he thought he would do all three.

His mouth grew dry—drier than it already was—and he stepped forward, releasing his rifle into the outstretched hand of the Death Eater nearest him. The man towered over him, making him feel smaller than he had ever felt in his life—smaller, really, than an ant. If he thought it would make a difference, he would have fired the weapon at him, if only to be spared for a minute more. As it were, time was slipping away from him again, and he found it hard to believe that the present was really happening at all.

Something wet trickled down his leg when the Death Eater pointed his wand at the rifle and a white glow lit up the metal barrel. He knew that the glow was not a reflection of the moonlight, and judging from the gasp his partner let out, he knew she didn't think so either.

"Well, well, well… Crabbe, we've got one here."

Crabbe came ambling over, rubbing his palms together. The Death Eater held the gun up so he could examine in, the white glow slowly fading.

"Any reason your gun hasn't been fired, boy?" he asked, spitting on the grass by his feet. "Trying to prove your allegiance to the Dark Lord some other way, are you?"

Michael's knees began to wobble, unable to support him any longer. Was this really happening? Had he really messed up so bad? His mind grew clouded, making it hard to concentrate on the way Crabbe twirled around the gun.

"It'd be a shame not to fire it," Crabbe continued, his voice growing distant.

The song Michael had been thinking of earlier soon took over any logical thought, the lyrics swirling around his mind:

 _And they all go marching down into the ground,_

 _To get out of the rain._

The rain continued to fall, making the material of his thin robes cling to his skin. Shivering, he tried to focus on what Crabbe was doing, vaguely aware of the way the gun was trained on his chest.

What had he done? He should've killed the girl and put her out of her misery. He should've acted like a soldier and fired his gun; he should've brought out another body like he was told to. If he had just followed orders, perhaps it might have spared him for one more day.

The combined image of ants marching, guns, cupboards and big, brown eyes swirled through his mind, pushing through the haze. No, he was not a murderer, and they couldn't—wouldn't—make him into one. He was not a soldier who killed innocents, nor was he an ant who obeyed a leader without question. He was not Number 1208B—he was Michael Corner and, for all intents and purposes, still innocent.

Closing his eyes, the rain never letting up, Michael allowed happier memories of life before the last week—before the entire war started—to take over. The song lyrics, as sung by his father, flowed through his mind, even when the rest of the patrol began to march on without him.

 _Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_

* * *

 ** _Additional, not-so-important A/N:_**

 ** _This fic was inspired by a Veronica Mars, S3 episode (heh, I've been watching too much tv lately) alerting everyone to the 'child soldiers' of Africa. I find it absolutely disgusting that children are forced into the military (not just in Africa, child slavery, unfortunately, happens all over the world) and made to hunt and kill civilians. Only someone truly evil could do such a thing, which got me thinking about what Voldemort would do to the Halfbloods and traitorous Purebloods if he were to win the war (the Muggleborns, Muggles and main Order members, in my head, being killed). I was also inspired by atrocities that happened during both world wars, as well as the song, 'The Ants Go Marching.' I really do wish that this inspiration had never occurred; that the very thought of child soldiers was merely a figment of someone's twisted imagination. Wishful thinking, I know._**

 ** _This fic was going to be named 'The Ants Go Marching' but, of course, I did not want to copy the song. As is stands, the nursery rhyme of sorts that this fic was inspired by is in the public domain, thus the lyrics (though very few were used) may be published on FanFiction._ _The lyrics are also different to those I was taught as a kid, but these ones are all over the net (though the spelling of 'hurrah' is also 'hoorah' on some sites)._ **_**My other entry that didn't make it to the competition was called 'Survivor' and revolved around Mundungus and the black market, should anyone be curious.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoyed this fic, and if you spot any issues or SPaG problems, please feel free to tell me so I can fix them before I officially hand this in. Thanks for reading! Xx**_


End file.
